


The Strange Adventures of the Leaping Men

by Nepthys



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Literary References & Allusions, M/M, Pastiche
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-28
Updated: 2012-10-28
Packaged: 2017-11-17 04:37:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/547690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nepthys/pseuds/Nepthys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The prompt was 'literary pastiche; proposal'. I'm not sure how I got from that to this - but boy, was it fun *g*.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Strange Adventures of the Leaping Men

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Draycevixen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Draycevixen/gifts).



> This was written for the Life on Mars 2010 ficathon. 
> 
> And don't miss out on the some fabulous illustrations to go with part 1 by the wonderful and talented basaltgrrl: [here in black-and-white sketch format](http://lifein1973.livejournal.com/2058925.html) and [here in colour](http://lifein1973.livejournal.com/2283028.html#cutid1). Do give them a look-see :D
> 
> Extra bonus points for anyone managing to spot the eight literary/pop culture references in the final section that _aren't_ explicitly named *g*.

**_Precept and Perception_**

“I do declare, Mr. Bennet, I have never been so cruelly misled!”

His eyes fixed upon the printed account of that week’s news, Mr. Bennet struggled to summon the required level of enthusiasm for discourse with his wife.

“Really my dear?”

“Indeed I do! Has ever such a hope been raised then callously dashed? My poor nerves are quite taxed by it!”

“I cannot imagine why, my dear; it was not you who thought to marry Col. Hunt.”

“Mr Bennet! How you can be so uncaring when it comes to your own dear daughters, I’m sure I do not know!” Mrs. Bennet wrung her hands in agitation, twisting her lace handkerchief about her fingers as though applying a tourniquet. “Col. Hunt was a well-respected and wealthy man, and by all accounts Mr. Tyler had made a fortune from shipping. Their leaving is a terrible blow to this family!”

Mr. Bennet cast a long look at his two eldest daughters, seated by the window engaged calmly in their needlework.

He folded his newspaper and cleared his throat.

“Jane, Lizzy – you appear to be the picture of contentment, but do tell me - are you both quite inconsolable?”

Mr.Bennet observed the quick look that passed between the sisters before Jane dropped her gaze back to her needle and Lizzy spoke.

“No, papa. Rest assured that we find we can face the departure of the gentlemen from Netherfield with no little equanimity.”

“You see?” interjected Mrs. Bennet, clearly too distraught herself to imagine any demurring on the part of her daughters. “Such disappointment is scarce to be borne!”

“My dear, you must not agitate yourself so; I truly fear for the welfare of your kerchief.”

With a gusting sigh Mrs. Bennet, declaring herself to be quite defeated, flopped down onto a chaise and her husband turned back to address their daughters.

“In truth Lizzy?” Mr. Bennet’s gaze shifted to the view from the window as he mused. “I did think these gentlemen had perhaps made a certain...impression.”

“Indeed Papa. They were most engaging and kindly neighbours. ”

Jane spoke up. “And Col. Hunt was most gallant at the Meryton ball; dancing with poor Miss Carter when the other gentlemen were so... already engaged. And they were both most solicitous of Mrs. Hollis when she was taken ill.”

Mr. Bennet nodded. “And one cannot deny that they acted with great honour in exposing the charlatan behind that investment swindle. Many people’s money was saved, undoubtedly.”

“All of Meryton will feel their loss.” Lizzy agreed, then added: “But we shall not _mourn_ it, Papa.”

“I am glad to hear it. Not even as the son-in-laws your mother would have wished them to be?”

The sisters, always so close, once again exchanged a glance, then Jane turned to look out of the window as Lizzy spoke, choosing her words with a certain care.

“I believe...that their attentions may have been engaged elsewhere.”

Jane coughed and spluttered suddenly, and Mrs. Bennet was instantly roused to action.

“Jane! Oh, my Jane – you have not caught a chill?” She turned to the door and called for the maid. “A cup of hot lemon, I think, and perhaps a poultice...one cannot be too careful. Not after what befell Mrs. Armitage.”

“Mama - Mrs. Armitage was fully eighty years old and suffered with the gout!”

“Exactly! One cannot be over-cautious about these things.”

As her mother fussed about, issuing contradictory instructions to the maid and ushering Jane from the window (“Drafts can be quite lethal, you know. Do you wish for a shawl, my dear, or shall we have the fire lit?”), Elizabeth allowed herself a smile at the remembrance of the two gentlemen from Lancashire who had so enlivened their summer months.

Despite her initial reservations – Col. Hunt in particular had appeared quite dour on first acquaintance – she had come to like and respect the two visitors over the course of several social gatherings in Meryton, during which time the gentlemen had become less reserved and more cordial towards their new neighbours. So much so that she and Jane had become quite regular visitors at Netherfield, being invited to take advantage of the library and the stables at whim. The presence of their ever-watchful housekeeper, Mrs. Dobbs, was judged chaperone enough, which had afforded the two sisters a fair degree of freedom in roaming the house and grounds. Any personal gratitude – admiration, even – which Lizzy may have felt towards the two gentlemen was only compounded by their gallant actions in uncovering the disgraceful investment swindle and saving so many of their friends and acquaintances from financial ruin.

She sighed, taking one last look at the growing gloom outside the window before beginning to tidy away her sowing. The high regard she felt for them had been directly responsible for her actions at the stables that day: it had taken her several moments, frozen in astonishment, to fully comprehend the scene before her, but when she realised quite what activities the two gentlemen were engaged in together, no conscious thought had been needed to direct her away on careful, silent feet, pulling Jane with her. And while the entire experience had been somewhat in the nature of a shocking revelation – Lizzy began to be cognisant of large gaps in her education of which she had previously been unaware, and made a silent vow to re-apply herself diligently to the Classics at the earliest possible opportunity – she felt that the two men, who clearly held each other in such high esteem, deserved whatever happiness they could find with one another.

Perhaps, although quite contrary to her mother’s oft-expressed belief, it was possible that not _all_ single men, whatever their fortune, were in want of a wife.

She smiled to herself, a little sadly.

Indeed, they would be missed. But wherever they went, she wished them the very best of joy.

 

***

**_Plum Sauce_**

 

My Aunt Agatha is, as you will recall if you are a regular Reader, the sort of aunt who chews on broken glass and likes to behead at least one nephew before breakfast. When not attempting to part the Wooster noggin from its lodging, she’s generally busy concocting plans which involve me having to keep some young poop out of mischief or else setting me up with someone of the female persuasion with matrimony in mind.

In this particular instance, it was a scheme of the latter variety that she had set in motion by engineering a weekend at Hartley Hall, home to one of her childhood friends and planned location of yours truly’s marital doom.

Fortunately, my man Jeeves is the brainy sort who has managed to save my bacon from the proverbial fire on countless previous occasions, and so it was with a distinct sense of confidence that I braced myself to face this latest threat to my bachelorhood, secure in the knowledge that I had his particular brand of fish-fed genius by my side.

Not that I knew of his plan in advance; oh no. I was as surprised as anyone when he turned up bedecked in wig, sensible twinset and pearls, masquerading as an American heiress who’d caught the eye – and the hand - of one Bertram Wooster during my recent jaunt across the Atlantic.

It wasn’t so much the arrival of Jeeves, incognito in his splendid disguise as Celia Van Heusen, which had raised the old Wooster spirits, but the chumminess he displayed as he sought to convince the world at large – and my Aunt Agatha in particular – that we were happily engaged, which brought a strange warmth to the area somewhere in the vicinity of my rather natty herringbone vest.

But, I’m getting ahead of myself again. After all, we were not the only visitors to Hartley Hall that weekend. There was my Aunt Dahlia, occupied in attempting to sell her loss-making magazine, ‘Milady’s Boudoir’, to the failed concert pianist Claude Devaux (although not so occupied that she failed to recognise Jeeves through his face powder and rouge – that precipitated a rummy few moments until we convinced her to go along with the gag in return for Jeeves pretending that Celia Van Heusen was her latest star authoress. Something about ‘salting the mine’ or ‘sugaring the medicine’ or some such rot).

There were also, of course, Lord and Lady Mountjoy, our hosts, and their daughter, Lavinia, the supposed object of my affections; the afore-mentioned nephew-decapitating dragon known as my Aunt Agatha, and the famous art critic and valuator Sir Bernard Stewell. Curiously, there was also a chap that I’d met at the Drones just the week before – Sam ‘Spammy’ Tyler - who had assured me that not only had we been at the same school (and he remembered all about my Scripture Prize), but had in fact pinched our first policeman’s helmet together. And although I had no recollection of the blighter he seemed an all right sort, so the Code of the Woosters compelled me to invite him along when, hearing of my planned sojourn, he professed an interest in seeing Lord Mountjoy’s famous gun collection.

Quite a houseful, then, as you might imagine.

So when chaos broke out, as it most assuredly did, I must confess that I rather lost the thread of things.

***

Accustomed as I am to being awoken by Jeeves shimmering in with the breakfast tray only at such an hour when the sun is well up into the sky, you can perhaps imagine my confusion at being wrenched from the arms of Morpheus in the small hours of the morning as the electric light was unceremoniously switched on and some chaps bundled into my bedroom without so much as a 'by-your-leave'.

I blinked groggily, making out Jeeves, resplendent in a ladies nightgown and peignoir (and I marvelled again that he really had left nothing to chance), followed by Spammy Tyler and that surly valet of his, both (thankfully) fully dressed. Jeeves stepped to the side of my bed, straightening his clothes and patting his wig into place and I fought with the counterpane as I struggled into an upright position.

“I say! What ho!” I exclaimed, although it lacked my usual joie de vivre. “Whatever’s going on?”

“We’ll ask the questions, you posh twit,” Tyler’s valet replied – Hunt, that was his name.

I goggled at him. Really, what were they teaching valets these days?

Then there came a gentle cough, like a sheep on a distant hillside, and the sound was as balm to my soul.

“If you’d allow me, sir, I think I can explain.”

Swivelling the old goggles at my manservant, I was simultaneously reassured by his calm dignity and alarmed that he had reverted to his usual mellifluous – and baritone – tones. If Spammy and Hunt had spotted it, then the game would, as they say, be up. Good Gad!

But before I could prevent it, Jeeves had continued.

“Mr. Tyler and Mr. Hunt are not who they claim to be--”

“Neither are you, you great big jessie!” Hunt interrupted.

“—but are in fact responsible for the spate of recent art thefts from country homes.”

Well! I had had my suspicions ever since Spammy proved unable to recall the words to our school song on the first night we got drunk together.

“What!?” Hunt spluttered. He was, I observed, turning an interesting shade of purple.

“I encountered them sneaking around the house in the middle of the night, sir, clearly up to no good. Unfortunately, they also encountered me--”

Hunt took a step towards him, in what I have to say appeared to be a most threatening manner. I swung my legs out of bed and (with only a very minor stumble) got to my feet. I’m not much when it comes to fisticuffs, as any of the Drones can tell you, but never let it be said that a Wooster doesn’t rise to it when the occasion demands.

Jeeves continued, apparently unperturbed.

“--but not before I was able to telephone the police. I imagine they are on their way now. You could probably escape if you left immediately.”

Hunt looked like murder, rather than escape, was forefront on his mind, and for the first time I felt a tingle of unease, like the occasion when Stilton Cheeswright had cornered me and was threatening to break my spine in several places - only worse. Still, how bad could it be? After all, the police would be here soon.

Spammy held up his hands as though refereeing and that Hunt fellow backed away.

“All right, let’s all calm down shall we, before we raise the entire house. Firstly, I take it that you _didn’t_ actually phone the police—”

I swallowed audibly.

“—because _we’re_ the police. Detective Inspector Tyler--” he gestured to himself, and then indicated his valet “—and Detective Chief Inspector Hunt.”

Well, you could have knocked me over with a feather at point, I don’t mind telling you. They both produced identification which Jeeves examined in detail before handing back, seemingly satisfied.

“In that case, sir, I apologise for my mistake,” he said smoothly.

Hunt took up the questioning. “So, you big tranny: are you going to confess?”

“Gene!”

I didn’t know what he was on about, but Jeeves seemed to radiate disapproval.

I looked from one to the other. “I say, confess what?”

“That you two are the bloody art thieves! – although I’m assuming he's the brains of the operation as you, you upper-class nancy-boy, have all the brains of a retarded limpet!”

I think, at that point, he was referring to yours truly.

Jeeves, always ramrod straight, appeared to draw himself taller; magnificently dignified despite the female apparel. “Firstly – _sir_ – we are not the art thieves. In fact, excepting Mr. Wooster’s youthful appropriation of policemen’s headgear, and notwithstanding rumours of his kleptomania which are entirely unfounded, it would be fair to say that we are not thieves of any description. Secondly, I have had the good fortune to have served Mr. Wooster as valet for several years and can assure you that although my master may be mentally negligible, he is the very soul of kindness and generosity, a _preux chevalier_ , and a true gentleman.”

I blushed to the roots of my hair. “Gosh, Jeeves, that’s very kind of you to say.”

“Not at all, sir.”

DI Tyler seemed to be laughing, but I couldn’t quite be sure.

“Oh, for God’s sake!” exclaimed DCI Hunt. “You don’t expect us to believe that twaddle, do you? What were you doing sneaking around the house in the middle of the night, then, if you weren’t stealing things? And why are you dressed as a woman?”

Curiously, DI Tyler coughed and nudged his superior. “I don’t think we really need to go into that, Gene, do you?”

“Oh, come on, we nabbed ‘im almost red-handed, so what’s to stop us hauling them both in?”

“The ruse is purely to save Mr. Wooster from arranged matrimony, sir. And my nocturnal wanderings were prompted by my suspicions that you and Mr. Tyler were up to no good.” Jeeves gave another, delicate cough. “I decided that searching your rooms was entirely justified, under the circumstances.”

Silence reigned. I was still wondering what, exactly, Jeeves meant by ‘mentally negligible’, when Tyler spoke, his voice low and quiet.

“You searched my room?”

“Yes, sir. And it was very illuminating, if you catch my drift. ” From within his gown Jeeves produced a narrow bundle of letters, tied up with some string.

Spammy – drat it, not Spammy at all – DI Tyler went a sort of grey colour.

“They the ones I wrote when I was undercover that time? - don’t tell me you kept ‘em, you great soppy idiot.” DCI Hunt’s eyes were on the letters, but he seemed to be speaking to his DI.

“They were well hidden...” Tyler responded faintly. He rather looked as though he might keel over on the spot, and DCI Hunt himself wasn’t looking too oojah-cum-spiff. Dashed if I knew what could be so rummy about a few letters - perhaps the blancmange at dinner had been a bit off.

I piped up. “I say, are you all right, old chap? You look like you could do with a snifter.”

I waved my hand and Jeeves returned the letters to the folds of his dressing gown and stepped towards the decanter on the side table, pouring us each a generous measure of w. and s. Odd, really. So far as I’m aware, he doesn’t indulge in the old hard spirits, let alone ever join me in a drink – Jeeves’s views on the place of a gentlemans’ personal gentleman being decidedly feudal – but I found I rather liked the chumminess of it all under the circs.

“Now that all the cards are on the table, gentlemen,” he was saying, “I suggest we focus our attentions on the more serious criminal matters at hand: as Mr. Wooster and I are acquainted with the houseguests it may be that we can help you in your investigation. And no more need be said about other matters not – _ahem_ \- germane to the pursuit of the art thief.” He glanced demurely over to the two policemen. “Do you concur?”

“Seeing as how you two are the biggest pair of mattress-munchers I ever clapped eyes on, I don’t see as how you’ve much of a leg to stand on!” DCI Hunt growled, but Inspector Tyler held up a hand again.

“Look, Mr. Jeeves is right, Gene – discretion is the better part of valour here, so let’s pool resources and work together.”

“Fine.” Hunt grumbled. “And then afterwards, you and I, Gladys, are going to have a short and direct conversation about the wisdom of keeping incriminating evidence.”

“Perhaps, then, gentlemen” Jeeves resumed, “You might start by telling us of your investigation so far?”

I hadn’t the foggiest as to what was going on – I didn’t know who the art thieves could be, or what those letters were about, or who this beazel Gladys was -- but it sounded as though Jeeves had one of his corking plans up his sleeve.

Beaming, I clapped my hands together and they all looked at me.

“Gosh,” I exclaimed; “– this _IS_ exciting!”

***

I shan’t bore you with the tedious details of precisely how I came to end up in the ornamental duckpond, nor how Sir Bernard was unmasked as the notorious art thief ‘Bags’ McCoy, nor how Aunt Dahlia failed to sell the magazine but managed to discover that Lavinia was in fact a rather good budding poetess; no, for once I shan’t bother with any of that. Partly because it would take an age to tell, and partly because I still don’t understand it myself, even after Jeeves has been through several attempts to enlighten me.

The salient points came later, as the hullabaloo calmed down, and Sir Bernard had been marched off the premises in handcuffs, and the rest of the houseguests had dispersed – variously – for tea, billiards, a nap, and a game of tennis.

“Dash it all, Jeeves!” I complained in hushed tones as we strolled arm in arm over the croquet lawn. “What on earth has been going on? I mean, I know my head doesn’t stick out at the back like yours, and perhaps I’m not the swiftest of chaps vis a vis the old uptake, but I defy anyone not to be entirely baffled by the last couple of days!”

“Quite, Sir,” my imperturbable manservant agreed, dropping the higher-pitched American accent once we were out of earshot of the house. I blinked a little, unaccustomed to his usual baritone being accompanied by his decidedly unusual female appearance.

“When did you start to suspect something was amiss?”

“Well, Sir. My suspicions were first aroused when you told me that your new friend Mr. Tyler was strangely enthusiastic about joining you on your visit to Hartley Hall. So when I arrived incognito, I observed the gentlemen closely. Mr. Hunt did indeed know his Crossley from his Wolseley, but quite aside from the small matter of his appalling manners, he clearly had no notion of the correct tie for Mr. Tyler to wear for dinner: no gentleman’s gentleman worth his salt would have allowed Mr. Tyler to appear bedecked in that particular shade of puce.”

“Really? I thought it rather fetching.”

Jeeves sighed in a manner that I could only describe as long suffering.

“Sorry, Old Chap, do continue.”

“To curtail a lengthy explanation, sir, I encountered the two gentlemen sneaking around Hartley Hall in the small hours, precipitating what our American cousins would term the ‘showdown’ in your bedroom.”

“Eee-gads! Well, all I can say is that I’m relieved they didn’t publicly unmask you as my valet. Rather a sticky wicket, that Jeeves.”

“Indeed, sir.” Just then Jeeves came to a halt, and I saw two figures approaching over the lawn. DCI Hunt was still in his chauffeurs coat, but one sleeve had been torn during the struggle in the rose bushes. DI Tyler looked rather more presentable, excepting the fresh bruise on his temple. I’d felt dashed sorry about that, but it _had_ been ever so dark.

“Well, it seems your work here is done, gentlemen,” said Jeeves, slipping back into his role as Celia.

DCI Hunt wore the strangest expression, as though something in the near vicinity smelt particularly unpleasant. “Yes. And I suppose that as you did provide vital distraction when we needed it, I’m willing to overlook the fact that Mr. Wooster here struck a policeman.”

“I’m really terribly sorry for that, DI Tyler. But it was all ever so confusing, you know, in the heat of the moment and what-not.”

Tyler waved it away as though he regularly got hit on the head by a flying plant pot. “There is _one_ thing, though....”

“Ah yes,” Jeeves opened his handbag and removed the bundle of letters, handing them to DI Tyler.

“Thank you.”

“Not at all, sir. Please be assured that I would not under any circumstances have allowed them to come to light - discretion being the better part of valour.”

And Inspector Tyler actually grinned at him. “Indeed – _Celia_.”

After a friendly round of handshakes, we watched them depart, side by side.

“Jeeves,” I said after a moment or two, “I have to confess that I’m still rather at sea about the letters.”

“The letters were of a - _romantic_ nature, sir. From DCI Hunt to DI Tyler. And rather more well expressed than I would have expected -- if very badly spelled.”

“Sorry, Jeeves, I don’t follow you?”

“The ‘love that dare not speak its name’, sir.”

“Er...?”

“The gentlemen are _inverts_ , sir.”

“Good lord! Oh, well.” I shrugged airily. “Rather a lot of that sort of thing about at Oxford, don’t you know. But I had no idea that the Boys in Blue also dabbled.”

“I think, sir, this was less of a _dabble_ and more of a long-term commitment – some gentlemen find that a long-lasting relationship of this sort, rather than the more conventional marriage to a female, is more suitable to their temperament and inclinations.”

“Hmm.” I pondered that one as Jeeves took my arm and we continued our stroll.

“So, that answers all that, but what about Claude Devaux running off with the parlour maid?”

“Pure coincidence, sir.”

“Oh. Well, everything seems rather tied up - except for this dashed pickle with Lavinia.”

“I believe I can set your mind at rest on that score, sir. Miss Mountjoy has declared that she intends to foreswear matrimony for the time being and turn her attentions to writing poetry. The appearance of your fiancée--” Jeeves gave a modest little cough at the reference to his good self “—and the assurance of Mrs. Travers that she will have something of hers in print before the month is out seems to have been sufficient inducement. You are entirely in the clear, sir.”

It’s difficult to describe quite how I felt upon hearing those words. Strange how the day suddenly looked altogether sunnier than it had five minutes ago, and the birds seemed positively chirpier. At that precise moment I couldn’t have wished for anything more: here I was, having just escaped a fate worse than...well, worse than most things I could think of, strolling along as though without a care with the perpetrator of my timely rescue (still holding onto my arm), who had exhibited a devotion to the Young Master which went decidedly beyond the mere feudal. My heart runneth over, as they say.

I will freely admit that it was with some reluctance that I finally turned back towards the house.

“So that’s that, then, eh Jeeves.”

“Sir?”

“Well, I suppose the only thing left to do is wait a couple of weeks, then tell everyone that Celia saw sense and ditched yours truly in favour of a newspaper magnate from Wisconsin, or some such.”

“That is one avenue open to you, sir, but if I might make a suggestion?”

“Of course, Old Chap, fire away.”

“Would I be correct in thinking, sir, that the ideal solution would be one which would more permanently secure you from further attentions of females of the marriage-seeking persuasion?”

“You would, Jeeves. Carry on.”

“In that case, sir, I would recommend that Miss Van Heusen is taken from you in a tragic, and fatal, boating accident – I suggest around the coast of Maine; the currents can be very unpredictable at this time of year. While this would no doubt result in a certain amount of female attention in the form of sympathy being expressed in your direction, if it were known that Celia was the love of your life and that you could not countenance giving your heart to another then I believe that any further talk of marriage would be forestalled, sir.”

I goggled at him.

“Jeeves! You are a wonder to behold!”

“Thank you sir. I suggest a delay of some four weeks or so before you send word to Mrs Travers of the sad occurrence. By which time it may be wise, sir, for you to embark on a lengthy cruise.”

“To drown my sorrows, if you will? Figuratively, not literally, speaking, of course.”

“Exactly, sir.”

Try as I might, I could not stop what I knew to be a jolly sappy grin from taking up residence on the old Wooster visage.

“And where would you like to go on this cruise, Jeeves? I suppose not to the good old US of A this time.”

“Perhaps the Mediterranean would be a better option, sir. I am particularly fond of the Almalfi coastline.”

“Then to Amalfi we shall hither, Jeeves.” I cleared my throat, feeling oddly rummy again, and thought of those two police chaps, riding off into the sunset together (well – it was the early afternoon, in actual fact, but you get the gist).

“Perhaps...perhaps we could consider it a _joint_ holiday, Jeeves. I mean...the sort that means something... _meaningful_.” While I’m not one with the gifts to wax lyrical – or even to successfully deliver the speech at a school prize – I was afraid that my admittedly meagre powers of expression were on this occasion particularly lacking; but my fears proved entirely unfounded when I glanced over to see the shining expression on Jeeves’s face – quite remarkable considering the chap hadn’t as much as twitched his lips – and heard those words so very dear to my heart:

“ _Indeed_ , sir.”

 

***

**_The Unexpected Resolution_**

It is with great relief that I finally take up my pen to set these words down in my personal journal. The exact events of the last few days cannot be divulged to the general public – at least, not within our lifetimes – but putting pen to paper brings a certain solidity to things and helps to settle the unquiet of my restless mind.

The tale of our journey to the continent pursued by Professor Moriarty, that Napoleon of crime, is a story which will be published in good time. But the finale in the Swiss Alps, and the shocking denouement at the Reichenbach Falls, must, for reasons which will become apparent, be forever obscured from public gaze. In due course I will perhaps think of a suitable tale to weave for readers of _The Strand_ – Holmes has often accused me of writing fiction, and so I shall – but in this journal I can, at least, set out the truth while it is fresh in my memory.

A scant week ago, Holmes and I had reached Meiringen and taken comfortable overnight lodging at the Englischer Hof. The next afternoon, we set out for Rosenlaui, intending to take a side-trip to view the spectacular falls at Reichenbach on the way. My companion had been in good spirits, despite the looming threat which dogged our every footstep, and so it was with no particular foreboding that we negotiated the twisting path which led around the tumultuous falls. The effect of the water is hard to describe with any justice: it almost overwhelms the senses with the constant, thundering roar and the fine mist which rises from the depths of the black rocks below.

We had just turned back to retrace our steps to the main path, when we saw a Swiss lad come running along it with a letter in his hand.

As he approached and handed me the note, however, I could see that he was older than he had first appeared, and as soon as he addressed us it was apparent that he was an Englishman, of northern origins.

“Don’t worry about the note, fellas, it’s all a ruse by Professor Moriarty.”

We both stared at him in a state of incomprehension. Well, _I_ did; I’m sure my dear colleague was already deducing the facts of the matter.

“DI Sam Tyler. We’re here to help you, and we don’t have much time so I’d be very grateful if you could act like you’re reading the letter, and then you, Doctor, head back down the path as though you are going back to the hotel.”

Stunned as I was, I scanned through the letter before handing it to Holmes. Allegedly penned by our hotelier, it most earnestly requested that I urgently return to attend to an Englishwoman who was stricken by the final stages of consumption. Clearly, it was a crude ploy to separate us.

I glanced at Holmes and was startled to see something akin to a smile – quickly smothered - playing about his mobile lips.

“Well, Watson, it would appear that the cavalry have arrived. Or should I say Scotland Yard – Inspector Patterson called in help, then did he? Very wise, as he was clearly out of his depth.”

“Yes, sir,” the man was saying, “although it was your brother, Mr. Mycroft Holmes, who sent us. He found the papers you had left in your desk drawer and got the measure of the situation. We believe that Moriarty and his remaining henchmen are close; we managed to nab the one at the hotel.”

“It seems that we are in your hands, Inspector. Do elucidate.”

“I stay here with you, Mr. Holmes, and when Moriarty appears – as he will – he will be expecting me to be in his pay. Hopefully, we can deal with him together.”

Holmes examined the ground at his feet. “Not, I have to say, the most water-tight plan I have ever heard recounted.”

I scoffed. “I think ‘rubbish’ would be the word I’d use, Holmes. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Yes, my dear Watson, you are,” he said in a decisive tone. Somewhat injured, I looked over to see him returning my gaze, his eyes positively blazing with that brilliant intellect, tempered only by what I recognised from long acquaintance as fond affection.

“Inspector Tyler here is admirably qualified. Observe the attention to detail in his disguise: the working clothes grimy and besmirched, right down to the dirt beneath his fingernails and the slight aroma of goat dung...”

Inspector Tyler appeared to wince somewhat at this.

“...and I see by the knife scar on the back of his right hand that he is no stranger to close-quarters combat. Added to the pouch at his waist which is intended for victuals but undoubtedly carries a small-calibre revolver, I’d say we were in good company, Watson.”

“Look, if you could move it along a bit—”

“But surely we would fare better as three?” I protested.

“Don’t worry, doctor; my Chief Inspector is waiting for you out of sight just round that ridge – he’ll explain the rest.” Tyler gave a small shrug. “Probably.”

“How will I know him?”

Tyler rolled his eyes in a rather disrespectful manner. “Trust me: you’ll know him.”

“Ah. Well...” I drew myself up, reluctant to leave but knowing that in the end I would do as Holmes asked. “In that case, I suppose I had better be going to attend to this patient,” I announced in a loud voice.

Holmes nodded, even as he said: “There is really no need to shout, Watson: nothing is audible above the noise of the falls.”

So it was that I turned and left them, Holmes leaning back against the rock, his arms folded, as if contemplating the water plummeting into the chasm below.

As I drew nearer to the main route I rounded a large jagged rock and I found myself grabbed by the shoulders and unceremoniously hauled into the lee of the cliff side. By sheer reflex, I struck out and landed a solid blow on my aggressor’s chin before he managed to seize my hands.

“Bloody hell! You’ve got a hefty swing on you! Thought doctors were meant to do no harm?”

I blinked, suddenly cognisant of my mistake. Surely no villain would be apparelled in lederhosen and a jaunty Tyrolean hat?

“DCI Hunt,” the man said, by way of introduction. He released his grip and stepped back.

I nodded. “Most grateful to you, sir, for your timely appearance. And sorry about striking you like that; I’m afraid the old army reflexes still take over from time to time.”

“I hope so, Doctor Watson; for all our sakes, I hope so.” And so saying, he reached back to the rock wall, then pressed something into my hands. I would have known it by the feel of it, slipping into my grasp like a long-lost love: a Martini-Henry service rifle.

I looked up at him, observing his grave expression. “Just in case the Professor doesn’t want to come quietly,” he said, and I nodded, knowing at that moment that I would willingly kill a man if Holmes’ life hung in the balance. I say that not with pride or with shame, but with a certainty that I would have followed my dearest friend into the very jaws of Hell had that been required of me.

“I’m hoping it won’t come to that, though,” the Chief Inspector added, and it struck me that of course the police would prefer to arrest the man and see him properly hanged for his multitudinous crimes. Hunt hefted his own rifle, looking at it almost regretfully: “’cos I’m much better with a .45. Not sure I can hit a barn door at 100 paces with this bloody thing.”

And with that he turned and headed off the path, scrambling up over the rocks.

Somewhat bemused, I made haste to follow, gripping the rifle more tightly. I recalled that it was effective over a range of about 400 yards, but surely we would not be able to approach as near as that. I knew that my own skills and favourable conditions could see me clear almost twice that distance, but with the swirling eddies of spray around the falls I was by no means certain of my abilities to correctly compensate for the wind direction and speed. We soon arrived at a narrow ledge and Hunt crouched, pulling me down with him. He had brought us to a vantage point with a clear view of where Holmes and Tyler waited, but with an overhanging rock shelf providing us with cover.

Those few moments spent huddled behind that rock near the falls are without doubt the most interminable and miserable of my life. In contrast, when they finally came, those fateful last minutes flashed as a zoetrope before my eyes.

Here then, is how I recall things unfolding in all their confused, stilted horror: a man approached, striding along the path as though without a concern in the world. We saw Inspector Tyler rise as if in greeting – and then drop suddenly; shot, as we would later discover, with a derringer.

Holmes tensed, as I could observe even at such a distance, and seemed to be trying to engage Moriarty (for it was evidently he) in conversation and so we stayed our hands – only later did I consider at quite what cost to the Chief Inspector, agonisingly aware of his felled comrade below us. Then with a speed of movement belying his scholarly appearance, the Professor lunged at Holmes and the two of them struggled, first this way and then that, back and forth on the dangerously narrow path.

I cannot in all truth say whether it was my bullet or Holmes’s final blow which sent the Professor to his doom, as the villain’s body has never been recovered from the dark, watery depths. But I do know that it was entirely owing to the valiant actions of Inspector Tyler that my dear old companion, teetering precipitously close to the drop as he was, did not follow his nemesis over the edge. The Inspector, although wounded, managed to reach out and grab Holmes even as the chasm threatened to claim him, and hauled him to safety. I shall never be so grateful to another human being as long as I shall live; of that I am quite sure.

We rushed to the spot, of course, where Holmes was already tending to Inspector Tyler, staunching the flow of blood by applying pressure to the wound. A quick glance at Holmes assured me that he himself was fine, and I turned my attentions to the Inspector. The bullet, evidently fired in haste, had pierced his side cleanly and exited without doing any lasting damage. The Chief Inspector watched me work with an anxious air, his demeanour ashen, and I apprehended how worried he must be.

“Bloody hell, Gladys, I can’t leave you alone for a minute, can I?” I was struck by the way his curiously gruff words were delivered in an incongruously tender tone.

Inspector Tyler gave a somewhat pained laugh – which I cautioned him against – and replied: “Never mind about me; I see you’ve been making friends in your usual fashion.” He waved at Hunt’s chin, which was, to my shame, looking decidedly bruised.

I did my best to patch Inspector Tyler up there and then, although I must confess that my attention could not help but wander to Holmes, as though to reassure myself that he was really there by my side and had not shared Moriarty’s dark fate.

Thus satisfied that we would all live to see another day, together we departed that beautiful but hellish place.

There is really not much more to tell.

We made our way wearily to a sheltered spot some mile distant where the two policemen had left some camping supplies. Over some hot, sweet tea we formulated a plan of action. Some of Moriarty’s gang, including the notorious Colonel Sebastian Moran, were still at large although it seemed that it would be only a matter of time before they were apprehended, given the evidence now in police possession. Even Holmes, usually somewhat dismissive of the skills of Scotland Yard, appeared sanguine about their prospects.

I raised the matter of our return to London, and the possibility of our acting as bait to draw out the rest of the villains, but the Chief Inspector interrupted me.

“That’s all very commendable, Dr. Watson, but the best thing for you two to do is to scarper and lay low for a while.”

“For a couple of years, say.” Inspector Tyler added, “Make it three to be on the safe-side.”

I looked uncertainly at Holmes, who had just finished perusing a lengthy epistle from his brother which the policemen had delivered into his hands.

“It seems that the Chief Inspector has a point, Watson. For once, we can best help by staying out of the way and letting the police do their jobs.”

I blinked at him, astonished. Rarely did my friend seem so willing to concede the battlefield.

“My brother suggests a prolonged tour of the continent. In fact,” Holmes continued, giving me a meaningful look, “he strongly recommends a number of very particular destinations...quite an itinerary, one might say.”

By the gleam in my friend’s eye I could apprehend that Mycroft’s suggestions owed more to his shady intelligence-gathering operations on behalf of Her Majesty’s government and rather less to his enthusiasm for the Grand Tour. The Game was most definitely afoot.

I needed no further enticement.

“Very well, Holmes, but what of your work and my practice? And Mrs. Hudson and Baker Street...?”

“Simple, Watson: I think I should die.”

We all stopped and stared at him and to my utter astonishment Holmes, damn the man, started laughing.

“After what we’ve just been through, I hardly think that’s a joking matter!” I protested.

“I’m sorry, my dear,” he said, sobering, “But if we can convince everyone of my – _our_ \- untimely demise, then we can be assured of acting without interference.”

Those pale grey eyes held a wealth of meaning, and for one long moment I could see the future stretching out before us, unknown and unlimited, and my heart verily swelled. I do not pretend to have the deductive powers to rival the World’s only Consulting Detective, but nevertheless I knew without question that Holmes referred not only to the pursuit of shadowy activities for Queen and Country, but also to the possibility of living free from the bounds of Society, reliant solely on our wits, constrained only by our own consciences, and guided by such moral judgement as we would make for ourselves.

A dizzying prospect indeed. So much so, that I fear it was with a dazed countenance that I bade a hurried farewell to our two saviours – they, both now decked in walking clothes, departing back to Meiringen to take the tale of our watery deaths to the authorities, and we, now carrying the camping gear, heading on into the mountains. Had I but known that that would be the last we saw of them I would have taken leave of them more warmly, for we owed them a debt which we could not hope to repay.

Preoccupied as I was, I nevertheless clearly recall Inspector Tyler’s final words to me, delivered in a low voice as he shook my hand:

“When you’re ready to return you can just write whatever you like, you know. If you’re worried...” his eyes glanced briefly but significantly in the direction of my companion, “...make up a wife. No-one will be any the wiser, believe me.”

And he smiled, turning with a final wave to fall into step with his Chief Inspector as they walked away, down into the valley. Astounded, I could only watch them go.

So barely a week later here we sit, in an unremarkable but quite passable Venetian cafe, and I am using the interlude to write these words even as Holmes dashes off a letter – in a hand entirely unlike his own and to be sent to an obscure address, but undoubtedly destined for Mycroft – and I am free to contemplate him.

There is little by which any casual acquaintance would now recognise either of us, so changed are our appearances, which is just as well. Only three men alive know of our continued good health, and I trust that Holmes has sufficiently conveyed our gratitude to Mycroft for his choice of confidantes: without Tyler and Hunt at the Reichenbach Falls we would in all likelihood have perished at that beautiful but most treacherous of spots.

Now our path stretches ahead – first to carry out a trifling investigation in Naples, thence to Athens, and onwards into the heart of the Ottoman Empire – and when Holmes looks up, catching my gaze, I wish it never to end.

 

***

**_The Good End Happily_**

“God, all this bloody jumping about takes it out of you.”

Gene slumps down onto their battered leather sofa and tilts his head back, allowing his eyes to fall shut.

“Yeah, well, it’s all in a good cause.” Sam nudges him with a foot, and Gene cracks his eyes open to see a glass of scotch being waved under his nose. Grateful, he takes it and swirls the amber liquid around the glass.

“What, you mean all this ‘putting things to rights’ business?”

“No, I mean trying to do something entertaining for this ficathon thing.” Sam lowers himself onto the sofa, his thigh pressing warmly against Gene’s.

Gene grunts. “Whatever _that_ is. The things they put us through...Still, I suppose at least there’s never a dull moment. Better than that time we sat around for bloody ages waiting for God to turn up—”

“It was _Godot_.”

“—and I did like those vintage motors.”

“Yeah.” Sam grins, pulling at the polo neck of his jumper. “Some of the clothes were great, too.”

“Trust you, Marjorie – you always did have a flair for the dramatic.”

“What’s next, do you think? I quite fancy some Shakespeare, myself. Maybe _Hamlet_...”

“Hmm. Or _Julius Caesar_ : ‘Infamy, infamy -- they’ve all got it in for me!’”

“You know, I don’t think that was actually Shakespeare.”

“Well, I’ve had enough of tights, anyway,” Gene declares with a dismissive sniff. “I wouldn’t mind something modern again; I quite liked that trip to two-thousand and eight...in the end.”

Gene’s tone is casual but is has a meaningful weight to it. He shoots Sam a sideways look which Sam returns, affectionate and teasing in equal measures. Two-thousand and eight had been a bit of a bore; the Jeffrey Archer novel – the title escapes him – was pedestrian to say the least and so they’d started to improvise, making things up as they went along, and an impromptu wedding –- civil partnership -– had been just the ticket to liven up an otherwise dull and entirely predictable plotline.

Sam is grinning. “Or Homer again? Plenty of homoeroticism there...”

“Mmm. You looked good in that short skirt.” Gene pats Sam’s knee, giving him an exaggerated leer. “But all the war and mayhem was a bit much after a while.”

“Hmm, I suppose it was a bit bloody. Something more gentle, then.”

“Yeah. After all that hiking around in the Alps I could do with a bit of a rest. Not to mention your bullet wound.”

Sam waves a casual hand. “It’s healed up pretty well. But I’m all for a holiday.”

“Hmm. So long as it’s not Mills & Boon again – the dialogue was bloody criminal.”

Gene feels Sam chuckle quietly next to him. He takes a long drink from his scotch – it’s a decent single malt, so at least there’s no scrimping – and he’s aware of Sam’s shoulder pressed to his, warm and comforting.

“That flying through the air business is a bit bollocks, though; I bruised my coccyx that last time.”

Sam snorts. “I’ll rub it better for you later. Listen: I can cope with all the spinning about and forward-rolls if it means some sort of time-travel instead of being stuck in a coma or in a bloody limbo-dimension-related plot.”

“Good point, Sammy; I’ll drink to that,” Gene says, feelingly.

And for a few moments they do exactly that, sitting in companionable silence.

“Although,” says Gene, frowning thoughtfully, “if it’s time travel, I don’t see why we can’t have an old police box – we _are_ the ruddy police, after all!”

Sam gives an oddly forced laugh and clears his throat, and Gene looks at him sharply before dropping his gaze to his glass.

There’s no easy way to ask this – and since that visit to two-thousand and eight he really shouldn’t need to – but the words press at the back of his lips.

“You don’t regret it, do you Gladys? Being stuck here with me, I mean?”

“Nah.” Sam jostles Gene’s leg with his own. “I’m the yin to your yang, apparently.”

“The Laurel to my Hardy, more like.”

Sam’s laugh this time sounds genuine.

“Besides,” he says, giving Gene’s hand a companionable squeeze, “I do remember agreeing to something about ‘for better or worse’ so I suppose I can’t complain that I didn’t read the small print.”

Gene takes another drink, feeling immeasurably warmed. He doesn’t know how this works but he suspects that this is all, somehow, fictional; and so maybe their partnership is fictional too – and bloody hell, two blokes getting hitched sounds like a fantasy, right enough - but it _feels_ real. As real as the scar on his calf from the Trojan arrow; as real as the Swiss goats cheese he had for breakfast that morning; as real as Sam sitting right next to him, warm and alive. And that, he decides, is good enough for him.

For a moment there’s just the two of them, grinning rather sappily at each other, but just as Gene leans over to kiss his partner, he hears the whisper of an envelope sliding under the office door.

He sighs. “Speaking of which...No rest for the wicked.”

Gene heaves himself to his feet and picks up the now-familiar manila envelope, ripping it open and extracting the single thin sheet upon which, this time, two words are typed.

He turns to Sam and frowns. “Huh. What happens in _Fanny Hill_ , then?”

Sam knocks back the rest of his scotch with an audible gulp. “Oh boy!” he says hoarsely.

 

**THE END (is just the beginning.)**

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. The reference to "putting things to right" is a nod to _Quantum Leap_ and Sam Beckett's on-going mission to "put right what once went wrong".
> 
> 2\. _Waiting for Godot_ by Samuel Beckett.
> 
> 3\. John Simm ('Sam' in _Life on Mars_ ) played _Hamlet_ in a well-received stage production in autumn 2010.
> 
> 4\. The line "Infamy, infamy -- they’ve all got it in for me!" is of course delivered by the inimitable Kenneth Williams in _Carry On Cleo_.
> 
> 5\. The references to flying through the air and doing forward-rolls is a nod to _The Time Tunnel_ , and the comparison Sam makes to a "being stuck in a coma or in a bloody limbo-dimension-related plot" is a side-swipe at _Ashes to Ashes_ (which I'm firmly ignoring, canon-wise *g*).
> 
> 6\. The "old police box" comment is, of course, a reference to Dr. Who's TARDIS, and the fact that John Simm played the role of 'The Master'.
> 
> 7\. Sam's final comment, "Oh, boy!" is another _Quantum Leap_ reference, being the line on which Sam Beckett would always end the episode.
> 
> 8\. And finally...the title of this section, "The Good End Happily" comes from Oscar Wilde's _The Importance of Being Earnest_ :  
> "The good ended happily, and the bad unhappily. That is what Fiction means."


End file.
